


Heavenly bodies

by a beta perspective (Ejunkiet)



Series: The (Research) Internship [4]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - No Hale Fire, Drama & Romance, M/M, Science Bros, Sciencey-AUs, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-26
Updated: 2014-11-26
Packaged: 2018-02-27 02:05:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2674817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ejunkiet/pseuds/a%20beta%20perspective
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You're an asshole, you know that?" He punctuates his words with a series of searing kisses, sucking Derek’s bottom lip between his teeth until he bites back at Stiles’ mouth. “You can’t drop a bombshell like that and just- <em>leave.</em>”<br/>--</p><p>Or the one where someone <em>finally</em> makes a move.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Heavenly bodies

**Author's Note:**

> This is an almost direct sequel to 'Miss me when I'm gone', so it'd help if you read that first before jumping into this series!

When Stiles wakes up, he's finds himself alone in someone else's bed. 

It’s not necessarily an unpleasant thought. He’s comfortable here, warm, and it’s not like he feels hung-over or sick – in fact, he feels _fantastic_. It’s probably the best night’s sleep he’s had in weeks.

Over his twenty-three years of existence, if there is one skill that Stiles can state, with confidence, to have mastered, it's how to roll with the punches. This is not the first time he's woken up half-naked in someone else's room, and it probably wouldn't be the last -- and, really, he could do so much worse. He's not even concerned that he's missing a shirt, as he's comfortable enough in his own skin without one; no longer that awkward, gangly teen too wrapped up in how self-conscious he was in High School to realise that he worked  _lean and skinny_.

Besides, when he cracks an eye open, he's pleasantly surprised to find one neatly folded on his side of the bed, if he did happen to want it - and whilst it's definitely not his shirt, it's clean and familiar, reminiscent of one of Derek's many iterations of the Henley, and-

_Derek._

He turns his head, catching sight of the neatly organized computer desk, the stacks of folded laundry, and yes, this is definitely Derek's room. His phone blinks innocently by his head, plugged into charge at the wall socket, and he's still wearing his socks, so they can't have gotten up to anything else (which was great, as Stiles would like to remember that, if they did).

He focuses for a minute, working on coaxing his memories from the night before back to the forefront of his mind. It’s slow at first, broken up into small bits and pieces, and fuzzy due to the haze of exhaustion he’d been in wallowing in, but it doesn’t take long for him to remember the gist of it -– Derek coming home smelling like powdered sugar and heaven, the email, and the suddenly very real possibility of the overseas program that would require him to move abroad for several years.

 _Oh._ Shit.

He pushes the thought away, choosing instead to bury deeper into Derek’s blankets – and they smell like him, too: clean, with a hint of tea tree and mint bath soap. He focuses on the sounds he can hear in the kitchen, a mishmash of clattering pots and clinking china - and it only takes a second for Stiles to figure out what it means.

It’s a tradition of theirs, an old one, to play the chef on the morning of something possibly _big_ , and it’s quite possibly the most wonderful sound Stiles has ever heard.

He smiles into the pillow, enjoying the feeling of the warmth that comforts him like a blanket, the guilty pleasure of being wrapped up in another person’s sheets – and not just anyone, but _Derek_. Derek, who -- if he concentrates -- he can hear singing as he cooks, his voice low and happy, covering his favourite tunes from Harry Connick Jr.

_'and in the morning... they don’t say goodbye,  
but with a kiss, they blend into the sky~’_

It's endearing, in the way that slightly off-key singing by those you care for always is, and Stiles takes the opportunity to roll over onto Derek’s side, splaying his hands across the creases until he can feel the indent in the mattress where it’s been bowed by the weight over time. He’s not sure if Derek’s side still carries the lingering traces of his body heat, or if it’s just Stiles’ wishful thinking, but he imagines that it does anyway, and lulled by the faint lines _‘the man in the moon’_ , he snuggles further into the sheets and falls back asleep.

\--

It can't have been more than fifteen minutes of before he’s awoken – rudely – by a pillow to the face, and Derek only laughs on his way back to the kitchen as Stiles curses him, flailing to keep his balance and not fall in an ungraceful heap to the floor.

(It’s a close one, but he manages it.)

A short while later sees him venturing out of the bedroom and into the shared shower, although it takes several minutes of searing heat and pounding water before he’s ready to face the day. By the time he’s done, he has to crank a window to let some of the steam out, or risk setting off the building’s fire alarm – as dealing with angry neighbours whilst dressed in little more than a towel was not how he envisioned spending his morning.

When he finally makes it into the kitchen, freshly washed and laundered, with the wet strands of his hair clinging damply to his neck, there’s a plate of bacon and eggs on the table, artfully arranged around a small stack of pancakes with wild berries and chopped fruit. It looks about as beautiful as the chef, dusting off his hands on a dishcloth as he sets another plate of French toast – _homemade French toast –_ onto the center of the table.

“This is – elaborate.” He winces the moment the words are out of his mouth. Jesus, Stiles. He could never really be considered eloquent in the mornings, but he’s never normally quite this obtuse.

Derek takes it in his stride, giving him a cocky grin as he pulls back a chair, gesturing for Stiles to take a seat. He’s dressed in his pants and shirt combo that he wears for lectures, and Stiles is reminded that not only is he covering his own lectures for today, he’s also moderating Erica’s seminar on print, and if Stiles has his schedule right (he does), that means he only has a few more minutes before he has to leave.

“Seriously, Derek, this is incredible. Thank you.”

Derek smiles, dropping a napkin onto his lap, and it’s almost _too_ much when he presents him with a freshly squeezed glass of orange juice.

He opens his mouth to ask, but it’s that moment that Derek finally decides to _speak_ , pinching a berry from the top of Stiles’ plate.

“It’s the Hale Special. It helps to start the day of an interview with a good meal.” He nods towards the rarely used espresso machine in the corner, its surfaces gleaming for the first time in months – in fact, Stiles hadn’t seen it for over half a year; Derek must have dug it out of the storage cupboard. “There’s coffee in the pot over there, the good stuff.”

Stiles groans, and it’s obnoxiously loud, but he can’t find it within himself to care. “What would I do without you?”

Derek’s smirk widens as he crosses the kitchen, meeting Stiles’ gaze for a moment before leaning in, hands moving to cup either side of Stiles’ face and he presses a small, chaste kiss against his lips.

“I wonder.”

Before Stiles has a chance to react, or say anything, he’s leaving the room, keys swinging from his fingers as he grabs his coat from the chair by the door.

“It’ll be a long day, and I won’t get many breaks, but I want you to keep me updated. Text me with how the interview goes.”

And then he’s gone.

\--

The interview, remarkably, goes well.

\--

When Derek arrives back at the apartment late into the evening, he’s exhausted, and he’s sure that Stiles is asleep. The light in the front entry way flickers on automatically as he makes his way up the steps of the apartment building, highlighting the darkness of the first floor flat. He’s not surprised – not after the day that Stiles would have had – but he still can’t help the niggling voice in the back of his head that urges caution.

The events of this morning have been cycling through his mind, stuck on a constant loop that had shadowed his every action and thought throughout the day. By the end of his shift, Derek was convinced that he should have stayed, even if he’d have to deal with ditching students as soon as the clock struck quarter past. Or, he could have saved his little stunt for later, some _other_ day, when he couldn’t have inadvertently fucked up Stiles’ chance to follow his dreams.

It makes him pause on the front stoop, house keys dangling from his fingers.

Stiles had been uncharacteristically quiet today, and his single message had been only three words long: it went okay. He doesn’t know what he’ll find when he steps through the door; it could be boxes, it could be Stiles making the preparations to move out, immediately, and he doesn’t know what he’ll do if he loses probably the one true friend he’s made since reaching adulthood.

There’s a thump at the door, and the sound of multiple locks turning, and before Derek has the chance to turn tail and run, or do _anything_ , the front door swings open to reveal an extremely pissed Stiles, wearing a pair of pyjama bottoms and little else.

“You asshole.”

Something rips in Derek’s chest, but he forces himself to stand steady and hold Stiles’ gaze. He refuses to acknowledge the weakness in his knees, or the way his hands are trembling.

 “I’m sorry.”

Stiles pauses mid-pace on the step, the anger in his expression wavering as he asks, "what?"

“I said I'm sorry. I shouldn’t have – we’re – you’re one of my closest friends, and I -“

Derek breaks off as Stiles throws up a hand, annoyance flaring in his expression. Derek braces himself for the angry, biting recriminations as Stiles stalks closer -- but they never come. 

Grabbing a fistful of Derek's shirt, Stiles uses the leverage to yank him forward, until they're close enough that he can kiss him.

Eyes screwed up tight, his lips are warm and soft, a counterpoint to the sharp anger he'd been expressing a moment ago as they press against his.

Stiles is kissing him.

Stiles is still angry, and it shows in the way he presses against Derek - but it alleviates as the kiss continues, softening into a gentle caress as Stiles' fingers tangle in Derek's hair. The loud retort of a car backfiring in the distance sends them both stumbling back into the entryway, Stiles kicking the door closed behind them. The line of Stiles’ body is pulled in flush against his own until he can feel every line of him --- and it hits Derek, then, that this is really happening. 

And of course, Stiles chooses that moment to pull away.

A small sound escapes from somewhere deep within his chest at the loss of contact, and Stiles huffs a laugh that brushes against his cheek. He hovers close enough that Derek can feel the curve of a smile against his lips as Stiles whispers, “ _you idiot”_ , before he gives a sigh, his hands gentle as he reaches out to cup Derek's face.

"Are we ready for this?"

Stiles’ eyes burn in the dim light, flickering over his features with a scrutiny that seems to pierce right through him, laying him out bare to the answers he's searching for. Instead of giving a response, Derek leans forward until he captures Stiles’ mouth, pressing him back into the wall of the front hall.

It’s clumsy and awkward at first; unpractised, as it’s been a long time for both of them, but it’s _Stiles_ , and nothing associated with Stiles can be anything but perfect.

He’s breathless by the time Stiles backs off, panting, Derek’s hands below his thighs – when had he done that?- supporting his weight as Stiles runs his hands through Derek’s hair, peppering his face with soft kisses. Derek’s hands are everywhere, smoothing across the expanse of skin that is suddenly available to him, unable to stop touching Stiles even for a moment as they catch their breath.

“You are an asshole, you know that?” Stiles punctuates his words with a series of searing kisses, sucking Derek’s bottom lip between his teeth until he bites back at Stiles’ mouth. “You can’t drop a bombshell like that and just- _leave.”_

His eyes are bright as he leaves Derek open-mouthed and floundering, pressing kisses against the edge of his mouth, his jaw, mouthing against his throat as he trails down his skin in long, open-mouthed kisses. When he bites at the juncture of his neck and shoulder, Derek shudders, his eyes slipping shut as he clutches at strands of dark hair for purchase.

"Jesus." His voice is hoarse as he chokes out the words, and he can feel the shape of Stiles' answering grin against the skin of his throat. “I'm - I'm sorry about earlier. I should have stayed.”

Stiles breaks away from where he'd been working on leaving a nicely shaped bruise just underneath the curve of Derek's jaw to belt out a laugh, eyes glittering in the half-light.

“You're only just realizing this now?" He raises a hand to Derek's cheek, rubbing a thumb along the ridge of his cheekbone before he adds offhandedly, affection in his tone, "you're lucky I'm so fond of you."

One thing leads to another, and there's not much time for idle chatter after that.

_\--_

They spend the next few minutes stumbling around the apartment, tripping over furniture and themselves as they work to strip each other of their clothes as quickly and efficiently as possible without losing their balance and braining themselves against the hardwood floors. It’s a relief when they finally reach a bedroom with a queen-sized bed (Derek’s) and fall into the sheets.

There’s a buzzing against Derek’s thigh, and he almost chokes – Stiles is just aching to make a smug comment as he breaks away from the kiss, and although he doesn’t say anything, Derek can see it in his expression as Stiles reaches down to drag his phone out of his pocket, flicking open the top button of his jeans with his other hand as almost an afterthought. Stiles phone vibrates again in his grip – a sharp throwback to the night before when Stiles woke Derek in the middle of the night to complain about the uncomfortable nature of _jeans_ – and Stiles rolls his eyes, thumbing at the screen to try to get the notification to clear.

“Stupid _dumbass_ phone-”

He freezes, and Derek loops an arm around his waist, pulling him in as he peers over his shoulder, pausing for a moment to nuzzle at his neck.

“What is it?”

Even as he asks the question, he can read the notification for himself, indicating that a new message in Stiles’ inbox from the European-based company he’d interviewed with earlier that day. That’s unsurprising; but the message in the subject line was not.

_'FW: Acceptance into program.'_

“Shit.” Stiles eyes are wide when Derek manages to tear his own away from the small screen and glance back at him, his teeth worrying at his kiss-swollen bottom lip. “This is not – holy shit.”

His hands shake as he keys in the passcode, skimming through the applications until he reaches the message and opens it so that both of them can read it.

After a moment, his hand finds Derek’s among the sheets, squeezing tightly.

“It starts in a little over a month.” This is – too soon. Way, way too soon. Of course, Derek had known about the possibility, had known that Stiles would be brilliant enough to get it. But – this was – they’d only _just-_

He takes a breath, ignoring the thumping in his chest as he shifts until he’s facing Stiles, hands still tightly wrapped together.

“What are you going to do?”

Stiles mouth is set in a line, although it wavers, and his eyes are watery as he makes eye contact with Derek. He raises a hand, brushing the tips of his fingers along Derek’s face, along his jaw, before they settle at the base of his throat.

“Honestly? I don’t know.”

**Author's Note:**

> Beta'd by evil_bunny_king! Find me on tumblr @ [ejunkiet](http://ejunkiet.tumblr.com)/[abetaperspective](http://abetaperspective.tumblr.com).


End file.
